


Of Gardens and Greenhouses

by feyjewels



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Reckless Driving, Romance, SO MANY ADDITIONAL TAGS, just a little though don't worry, they are so dumb y'all, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyjewels/pseuds/feyjewels
Summary: “You want me to retire... with you...” Crowley said slowly, reluctant to fully connect the dots in his mind lest he be wrong,Please don’t be wrong,“...to the countryside.”“Yes, dear fellow, look at those garden plots,” Aziraphale gestured fervidly to the image on the creased printout, “You could grow your plants, as many as you’d like, there are enough rooms for the both of us, and for guests if we should choose, one of the existing rooms is already made to be a small library, and well, we could split costs as it were,” he ceased his rambling, straightening his collar with one hand. “I thought it… economical.”“Economical? Angel,” Crowley softened despite himself, “You know we don’t have to give a shit about finances.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	1. Pocket Squares, My Dear Fellow

"I just need ten minutes," Aziraphale called from upstairs. "Make yourself comfortable," he added somewhat unnecessarily. For one thing, Crowley always made himself comfortable in any space with or without permission. Conversely, despite his sprawling, he never actually _was_. Comfortable, that is. 

"Your hair looks fine," Crowley suggested loudly.

"It's not the hair," Aziraphale said, voice moving through the upper flat, "I can't decide between two-" he continued unintelligibly from his room. 

"What?" Crowley shouted.

"Pocket squares!"

"Pocket squares?"

" _Yes_ , dear fellow, should I go with a traditional pattern? Or maybe a solid color-" 

"Whatever, just get on with it!"

"Well if you'd just let me think," the angel grumbled and then lowered his voice to surely mutter to himself.

Checking his phone, Crowley sighed. They were going to be late for their dinner reservation at this rate. Oh well. The owner of The Greenhouse owed him a favor anyway. 

Crowley ambled through the shelves, brushing against familiar titles. For kicks, he flipped to a random page of _The Secret Garden._

Landing on, “If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden,” he rolled his eyes. That was easy to say if you lived at Great Maytham Hall and had acres of land. Nevermind that Crowley had once tried to invite himself over to sneak a peak at the famous gardens of the author herself and Frances had refused him. Old cow.

Then the red and gold cover of _Pride and Prejudice_ caught Crowley’s eye, his fingertips were drawn to the spine like a magnet. He didn’t need to open it, just feeling the binding brought back to him a line that had been seared into his bones since he first read it:

_I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun._

Crowley shook his head with a scowl, annoyed at the familiar twinge in his chest.

 _This is why I don’t fucking read,_ he thought to himself.

He wondered if, later, Aziraphale would be browsing his collection and would be able to tell that Crowley had been there. If he’d detect the affection and tenderness Crowley had practically slathered all over the damn thing. Angels could feel that sort of thing. That wouldn't be too terrible, would it? Half of the trouble was, he wanted Aziraphale to know he'd been there. He removed his hand, stuffed it in his pocket, and moved on.

Eventually Crowley found himself at Aziraphale’s desk, the only organized area in the whole shop it seemed. He drummed his fingers on the wood impatiently, looking out the window at the passersby. 

Outside, humans were going to dinner reservations of their own no doubt. Crowley amused himself, nitpicking the fashions of the tourists. He spotted a tall man sporting a very tacky blazer over too-short jeans. He rolled his eyes at a gaggle of middle-aged women with hairstyles old enough to legally vote as they entered a boutique together. Even the woman leaning against the wall of the shop was an offender, her mint green scarf clashing awfully with her forest green loafers. 

_Where does one even purchase green loafers?_ Crowley thought to himself.

As if sensing his disdain, her head turned towards Crowley who quickly ducked out of sight behind the desk, bumping his head on the chair and cursing.

Once more, the word “gardens” caught his eye as he rubbed his temple. This time, however, it was not on the spine of a book. Crowley moved a few papers aside to pick it out of the pile, revealing a printed-out real estate listing.

On the top of the page, there was a picture of a lovely cottage, well, more of a legitimate house. But it had the charm of a cottage. It was surrounded by a well-manicured lawn, pleasantly-rounded shrubs, and picturesque rolling green fields in the distance. Under the picture was the real estate information: square acreage, price, number of rooms, all of that. The word that had drawn him to the page was listed in “Key Features: Set in wonderful landscaped gardens.”

All of this would have been simply curious if not for the words penned in Aziraphale's neat cursive on the paper which read, "Make decision today. Tell Crowley at dinner."

A pit began to grow in Crowley's stomach, the usual bubbling of unease replaced by gnawing anxiety. He typed in the URL at the bottom of the paper quickly into his phone. The expected image did not show, only the words, “This property has been sold and removed from listing” under a hateful yellow and red real estate logo.

Well that didn't mean Aziraphale had bought it, anyone could have bought it. No need for alarm, Crowley told himself, must have been part of some other research. Or maybe Aziraphale had considered purchasing the property, but was bought out. No, no, Aziraphale wasn't going to move and leave Crowley to himself in London. Aziraphale wouldn't do that.

These were all words he told himself but did not believe in the slightest as he heard Aziraphale finally descend the stairs. Quickly, Crowley folded up the paper in his hand, pocketing it in his trousers. He moved away from the desk just as the angel came into sight, smiling widely.

"Cream," he said brightly, pointing at his chest. 

Crowley shook his head, his mouth and lungs working together to string an incomprehensible set of vowels and consonants together before articulating, "The what?"

“Pocket square,” Azirphale pinched the cream-colored pocket square that tastefully peeked from his tweed coat. Their previous discussion had been so far flung from Crowley’s mind that he had forgotten why he had wandered to the desk in the first place.

"Ah, yeah, looks great," Crowley said, trying to keep his voice level.

Aziraphale frowned, eyebrows furrowing softly, "Are you quite all right my boy?"

"Of course I'm alright,” Crowley lifted a single shoulder to shrug, hands still in his pockets, “Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"You-" Aziraphale began, but then closed his lips primly. "Nevermind then. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, also remembering then the reservations they would surely be late for. "Yeah, let's go."

Aziraphale politely polished off his duck foie gras as Crowley picked at his wild Cornish turbot. Why’d he order the fish anyway? Oh that’s right, the angel had recommended it. Well it was good, couldn’t deny that. It was only that unironically, given that they didn’t need to eat, he wasn’t particularly hungry.

“And,” Aziraphale continued on the conversation he was mostly having with himself, placing his silverware on the dish to indicate he wasn't going to eat any more, “in concerts, he was not known for his prowess.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley agreed mindlessly, his fork traveling around the plate but making no stops, “Sure.”

His hand was no longer in his pocket, but he could feel the paper burning a hole there all the same, weighing him down, slowly poisoning him through his trousers. Hell. Only a week after the End of the World That Wasn’t, and Aziraphale was already moving on. Crowley had hoped, wished more like, that they could maybe relax for a little while.

 _You can still relax, yeah? Aziraphale moving away doesn’t change your style none, in fact, you can really_ truly _relax with the angel off your back._

The internal argument wasn’t convincing. Crowley knew it wasn’t his leisure time he really cared about now that he was “retired.”

Or maybe it was, since he and Aziraphale had taken to relaxing in each other’s company as of late. By day they strolled parks and museums, after an early lunch separated and went about their own business, then alternated picking places to eat dinner each night. Dinners usually ended in drinks, then drinks would continue at either Aziraphale or Crowley’s place. Then they would bid each other goodnight, with plans already in their head for the next day.

In fact, they hadn’t spent a day apart since the bookshop had burned down and reassembled itself. Unencumbered by holy, or unholy, orders, the two of them were free to do what they pleased. 

More importantly, they were free to do it _together_.

If Crowley was being honest with himself, and he rarely was, he would say these had been the most enjoyable few days he’d spent on earth so far. 

_Should’ve seen this coming_ , Crowley stared at the patterns his fork had made in the sauce. _He’s only spending this much time with you now to make himself feel better about shipping off later._

_Then what was this all for? Everything we risked, everything we almost lost. All that work for us to just go our separate ways? Am I going to lose him, still, after all of that?_

_Work’s done, isn’t it? You were always bound to each other by work, but now that he’s effectively quit, there's no reason for him to stick around. What did you expect, that you'd traipse around London together for the next century, eating crepes and talking about poetry?_

_This is why I try to be not honest with myself,_ Crowley concluded grumpily, glancing out one of the many windows. A late summer rain had begun to patter on the glass.

“Don’t you agree?” Aziraphale asked with a smile, looking at Crowley expectantly.

“Uh,” Crowley shook his head, “Yeah, of course.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale patted his mouth with a napkin, “I don’t believe you’re listening to me.”

“Course I’m listening,” Crowley lied.

“So you agree that Freddie Mercury, as a performer, was rather overrated.”

Crowley opened his mouth, emitted a sound of protest, then closed his mouth, then opened it again, “Now, hold on-”

“Really dear, what’s troubling you today?” Aziraphale said, that soft furrow back between his brows, “You have barely touched your food.”

“I’m not a fan of the fish,” Crowley slouched.

“Oh,” the angel looked disappointed, then hopeful, “Would you like some of mine? I've still got a little left, I won't finish it.”

“I’m not hungry,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, instantly regretting his tone as Aziraphale’s face fell.

“Well, you did suggest the venue,” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap.

“And it’s lovely, and you enjoyed your food, so that’s wonderful, why don’t you stop worrying about me?” Crowley said, once again with more bite than he intended.

“It’s been my job to worry about you for six thousand years, dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “I don’t intend to stop now.”

Crowley looked at his friend sideways through his glasses. Aziraphale didn’t look angry at him, just concerned, and a little sad. Crowley cursed inwardly at himself. The angel was just trying to be kind, wasn’t he? He could probably see through the temper tantrum Crowley was throwing, he knew him too well. They had gotten too close.

_Maybe him leaving is for the best._

_Maybe it’s best for him if he leaves._

_Maybe_ _this is_ why _he’s leaving._

“I wanted to talk to you about something actually,” Aziraphale said, speaking more confidently, puffing himself up.

_Here it comes._

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, about what to do now that we are free, well,” he continued, waved his hand vaguely, “retired, I should say. We don’t have to stay in London, pretending to thwart each other’s plans. We can,” Aziraphale took a deep breath, “Well, we can pursue our own interests more fully.”

“It’s fine, angel,” Crowley said, leaning back into his chair, trying to look disinterested, “I know about the house.”

That shut the angel up. “You-”

“It’s _lovely_ ,” Crowley let some of the sarcasm seep into his voice on purpose this time, “Proper quaint place, should suit you nicely. A whole four acres to yourself though? Seems a bit excessive, and that’s coming from a demon," his mouth turned up at the corner without smiling, “I don’t know why you feel the need to make such a big deal about it, it’s not like I’m going to stop you.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth a few times, nonplussed. “How-”

Crowley reached into his pocket and flung the real estate listing onto the table. “Caught my eye, that’s all. Saw the place was sold, congrats, I should say. It’ll be nice to have the city to myself I suppose,” he stretched, yawning a little. 

_I lost you before. This time it will be on my terms._

Aziraphale opened the paper, quickly scanning over the image, pouting a little. “Well, I did want this to be a surprise. What were you doing, snooping around my desk?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Crowley leaned forward a little, “I was bored, you were taking forever with your bloody,” he waved his hand, “handkerchiefs.”

“Pocket squares,” Aziraphale let out a short breath through his nose.

“Whatever,” Crowley leaned back up against the chair, “Just let me know what day you’re going to move so I can make myself scarce. The Bentley isn’t made for hauling boxes.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale was becoming more agitated, his hands splayed on the table, “You are still not listening to me. I was going to ask-”

“I’m listening, and believe me, I’m-”

“The house is for us!” Aziraphale, blurted, looking around quickly to see if anyone had taken notice of his outburst, then glanced back to Crowley, cheeks turning a fetching scarlet.

It was the Crowley’s turn to be nonplussed. He cocked his head. “You-”

“I was _going_ to tell you,” Aziraphale said with controlled discomposure, “That I thought it might be a good idea for us to lay low for a while. We’re still not out of the frying pan, and London is full of spies and,” he could see Crowley trying to cut in but continued on, “I know you love London and your apartment, but I thought maybe we could have a little peace and quiet. We deserve that, do we not?” Aziraphale tipped his chin down, folding his arms back in his lap, eyeing Crowley nervously. 

“You want me to retire... with you...” Crowley said slowly, reluctant to fully connect the dots in his mind lest he be wrong, _Please don’t be wrong,_ “...to the countryside.”

“Yes, dear fellow, look at those garden plots,” Aziraphale gestured fervidly to the image on the creased printout, “You could grow your plants, as many as you’d like, there are enough rooms for the both of us, and for guests if we should choose, one of the existing rooms is already made to be a small library, and well, we could split costs as it were,” he ceased his rambling, straightening his collar with one hand. “I thought it… economical.”

“Economical? Angel,” Crowley softened despite himself, “You know we don’t have to give a shit about finances.”

“I-I mean for the earth. Environmental. Oh, just,” Aziraphale took out his pocket square, dabbing his forehead as Crowley smiled at him, couldn't help himself, “Let me try again,” the angel smoothed his napkin, glaring at Crowley “No interrupting this time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley sat back holding up a hand in mock defeat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tipped his head, “Would you consider co signing the lease on a cottage in the South Downs with me?”

Crowley grinned, “Sounds lovely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, this aspires to be a multi-chapter fic. Don't worry all you folks at home eager for the next installment, about a dozen chapters already exist in rough-draft form, I just have to edit them into making sense to anyone else but myself.  
> I'm sure you have questions.  
> -Will there be smut?  
> Yes, mucho smuto. Patience.  
> -Where's the domesticity?  
> Look, they already argued about pocket squares, take what you're given, they're about to move in together.  
> -You call that angst?  
> Well, yeah, but still, as I said, more to come, don't you worry.  
> -Why does this sound like an American wrote it?  
> Because I'm American, and I am stupid. Please Brit-pick me kindly and I will make changes.  
> -Is that last part of the chapter inspired by an episode of Phil of the Future?  
> Yes, and if you can be the first to tell me which scene from the episode, I will personally venmo you one US dollar.
> 
> The Greenhouse - https://www.greenhouserestaurant.co.uk/  
> The Cottage - https://search.savills.com/property-detail/gbhhrshys190099


	2. Angels Don't Wear Green Scarves

Aziraphale felt as if there were caterpillars crawling around in his stomach.

 _No, no, that’s not the phrase. Beetles? Ah, Butterflies, that’s it_ , he had been on the right track with his first idea. Regardless, he felt his nerves beginning to get the best of him.

_Calm yourself, dear fellow, Crowley will be here any minute._

But that was the problem, wasn’t it. Or, no, it was the opposite of a problem. It was, he reminded himself, a very good thing. 

That didn't mean he wasn't nervous about it though.

In the few days following their dinner at The Greenhouse, Aziraphale had organized, sorted, packed, and thrown out. Well, he hadn’t thrown out much. And he hadn’t so much organized as he had put into boxes in no particular order with, in Crowley’s opinion, a rather misleading labeling system. Aziraphale knew where everything was, anyway, and it was all going to the same place, his new home.

Our _new home._

A butterfly flew head-on into his esophagus at that thought. He quickly went over his mental checklist once more. His boxes had been picked up a few hours ago by the movers and had surely already arrived at the cottage. The shop was locked, yes. His overnight bag was at his side, yes. Did he have his keys? Had he turned off the oven? No matter that he never used it. Should he go and make sure?

Thankfully, a black car turned the corner as he strongly considered re-entering the shop. With a smile, Aziraphale walked a step towards the street, but a pedestrian bumped into him, almost knocking him off his feet. 

“Pardon me!” Aziraphale said, but the woman ran past him without a word. Before he could complain, she turned into another shop, long black hair flipping out of sight. Aziraphale grumbled to himself about university students’ manners as the Bentley parked and a familiar gangly figure emerged.

“You know we’re not flying across the continent, don’t you angel?” Crowley said, picking up Aziraphale’s tartan suitcase. “It’s a two-hour ride to Alfriston.”

All at once, that familiar feeling flowed through Aziraphale.

It has been a few millennia, and still sometimes it caught him off guard. The warmth and constancy of Crowley's presence, the knowledge that...

Well, now was not to dwell on what Aziraphale knew but had never said aloud.

“The luggage is not for the car ride. And I should think it will be closer to two hours and thirty minutes,” Aziraphale said, opening the passenger door. “To account for the traffic,” he continued once Crowley had sat back down in the driver’s seat.

“What are you, Google Maps?” Crowley pulled out his phone to shoot a quick text.

Aziraphale glanced at his shop through the rearview mirror as Crowley put the Bentley into drive, pulling away from the curb. The bookshop looked the same as when he first bought it years and years ago. He had made sure of that.

“Angel?” Aziraphale turned, Crowley was looking at him, “You okay?”

“Quite fine, dear fellow,” Aziraphale shook his head, “I am simply being nostalgic, that’s all,” he smiled reassuringly at Crowley though the butterflies still fluttered behind closed doors, spurred on by Crowley's presence. “I will miss London but I am happy to be getting out of the city. Did you see that woman who ran into me just now? She did not even stop to apologize,” he huffed, fastening his seat belt.

“What woman?” Crowley stopped at the crosswalk to let tourists pass.

“I don’t know, she just ran right past me. Probably a student, or-”

“Green scarf,” Crowley leaned forward, examining the rear-view mirror.

“No no, I don’t think she was wearing a scarf. She-”

The demon hit the steering wheel with the flat of his palm, suddenly agitated, “ _Fuck_.”

“Now there’s no need to become violent,” Aziraphale raised a hand in protest, “it was just-”

“Aziraphale, _turn around_.”

He did. Sure enough, there was the woman who had bumped into him, back on the sidewalk in front of the shop she’d escaped into, far enough away that he couldn’t quite discern her features besides her dark blouse and trousers. She was talking to another woman, and this one wore a green scarf over a rather beige ensemble, save for her green shoes. They seemed to be arguing, the green scarf woman was waving her hands agitatedly.

“Hmm, making quite a few enemies today it seems,” Aziraphale mused.

“Is that her?” Crowley said with an intensity that made Aziraphale jumpy, his eyes not leaving the rear-view mirror, “The one in the black, she ran into you?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Aziraphale looked between the women and his friend, “But what’s that-”

Behind them, a horn honked. The walkway was clear, and Crowley hadn’t started driving.

“I’m going, I’m going,” the demon yelled angrily, waving his hand, speeding off at an uncomfortable velocity. He began cursing again as he weaved through the traffic.

“Crowley, what in heaven's name has gotten into you?” Aziraphale said, holding on for dear life.

“I saw that woman before. With the scarf and the shoes. Outside your shop,” Crowley switched without using his turn signal, “She’s been spying on us.”

“ _Spying_?” Aziraphale turned around, despite the fact that they were well out of sight now.

“She must be an angel,” Crowley seethed to himself, calculating, “and the other one a demon, that’s why she ran away when I arrived. She knew I’d be able to sense her if I got to close. Damn it-” he zoomed through a barely-red light.

“Now hold on, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying to contain the hysterical edge to his voice, “you didn’t feel anything when she was close, did you? The demonic,” he waved his hand vaguely, “sins and the like?”

“She never got close enough, besides, the entirety of Soho reeks with sin,” Crowley said. His knuckles were beginning to turn white on the wheel.

“Then there’s no way to know for sure,” Aziraphale reasoned, attempting to comfort himself as much as his friend, “and if the other woman _were_ an angelic spy lurking around my shop, I certainly would have felt her virtue by now.”

“I only saw her once, across the street. Probably didn’t get close enough to you,” they merged onto the motorway.

“Then perhaps she’s just a local. And-” Aziraphale smiled then, his fears suddenly vanishing as a thought occurred to him, “wait one moment. Her scarf was green.”

“And her loafers were green as well, what’s your point?” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale.

“Aha,” Aziraphale’s eyes were bright, “so that’s settled then. She was simply a local with poor taste, arguing with that rude woman.”

“How-”

“She was wearing _green,_ my dear,” Aziraphale said, scandalized, “Have you ever seen an angel wear… well…”

“Anything other than a shade of white, grey, or beige?” Crowley muttered, “no, I haven’t.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale turned towards Crowley, “They are quite strict about the fashions up there. I’m sure similar rules apply to your lot.”

“They’re not ‘my lot,’ anymore,” Crowley said, hurt creeping into his voice.

“My apologies,” Aziraphale winced, “you do know what I mean though, don’t you, dear?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley looked at him seriously, “You know they’re not going to just give up on us, right? We’re on their list. Heaven and Hell, they,” the demon let out a breath, “they don’t forget _or_ forgive. You said it yourself, at the restaurant, they have spies everywhere.”

Aziraphale fiddled with his handbag. “I know,” he said eventually, “I, well, it’s another reason to leave London, I suppose,” he looked out the window at the passing buildings, “There are too many people in this city these days.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. They sat in silence for a bit, thinking, speeding past mortals at an alarming rate. “You know, you’re probably right,” Crowley said, his old irreverence creeping back into his voice, “Imagine. An angel wearing _green shoes_.”

Aziraphale chuckled, relieved, “Yes, who would they think they were? Elvis?”

“Come now,” Crowley chided, “you’ve got to know his shoes were blue.”

“Even more gaudy! Can you picture,” Aziraphale’s eyes darted around conspiratorially, “Gabriel in those things?” Crowley barked out a laugh.

The image of Gabriel in blue shoes escalated to a blue jacket, then blue suspenders, and by the time the two were picturing the archangel in a baby blue three-piece suit, tears were rolling down both their cheeks.

“Still,” Aziraphale said, wiping his eyes as a thought occurred to him, “I’ve been thinking, we should find a way to protect the new house. You know, from angelic or demonic presences other than ourselves.”

“You mean with sigils and such?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the ones related to summoning and placing a call,” Aziraphale thought aloud, “but I think we’d need help with the protection spells and wards.”

“Hmm,” Crowley turned onto the freeway, “Spells and sigils. I wonder who we could possibly call to help us with that.”

"Oh, um, Crowley," Aziraphale looked behind him, "isn't Alfriston in the other direction?"

"We'll get there, angel," Crowley pulled out his cellphone, "but first we need to make a house call."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Or does it? Everyone's favorite descendant will be making an appearance next chapter...


End file.
